


This is the Way the War Ends

by godcomplexfics (godtiercomplex)



Series: The World Keeps Turning On Its Axis [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiercomplex/pseuds/godcomplexfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the day, sometimes it’s better to reevaluate what truly matters even if what’s left in the aftermath isn’t what you quite expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is the Way the War Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destroyallmonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destroyallmonsters/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I got called out a few times on twitter for only writing angst about Nalin and Akmal’s relationship so I decided to write this. Call this a symbol of how much I care about my friends’ well being and emotions. Also, call this sort of an apology because I’m in the middle of writing a really long fic that takes place during the British Raj and that’s not going to be happy at all. 
> 
> Anyway this takes place post Annual Well Wishes and is from Akmal’s POV. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I was going to do research into cricket before I decided I didn’t hate myself enough for that.

Akmal was sleeping when there was a knock on his door that made him crash from his dreams of peace, back into his unsteady reality. As he listened to the light tapping and tried to place who it could be, he glanced over at the in progress game on his tv. His team was doing well, and he hoped they would keep up the streak as he scratched his belly and finally made his way over his front door. He had to nudge a few things out of the pathway, but it swung open easily enough.

He was tempted to swing it shut again before India could even open his mouth. His elder brother was dressed in what he must think was casual clothing but was still too fancied up.

“What are you doing here?”

“Business, I assure you,” India’s voice was to the point as he lifted up a hand and indicated his briefcase and waited to be let into the house. “I called when I got in, but there was no response.”

“Okay,” and he drawled that out, but didn’t move back just yet. His house was a wreck, and he did not want to deal with the judgemental looks from India of all people, not today. “It’s too nice to be doing work. And I didn’t get a call from you.”

“Yes, the weather is nice, and this won’t take long as I have no interest in lingering here. And I called twice, check your phone if you must, Pakistan.” Impatience was creeping into his voice, so Akmal sighed and let him into his house, making his way back to his couch, and letting India take the armchair. He knew how his house must look to India who prided himself on keeping things neat and tidy, but he didn’t care. This was his life.

The volume on the tv was already low, but he muted it before India could complain that his focus wasn’t on whatever he was going to make him look over and sign.

“What type of business anyway?”

“Business towards fostering better international relations.” India opened up his well kept briefcase with a _snap_ and pulled out a few documents and a pen, “The details are in the documents. Read carefully, I wouldn’t want you to say I’ve misinformed you on something.”

He tried to see if his brother was fucking with him for a moment before taking the papers with a groan. There had been a phone call a few months ago, just after his birthday had passed, but before his brother’s had ended. They hadn’t discussed much, just exchanged birthday wishes, and said goodnight. At the next meeting with the nations, they hadn’t even argued much beyond India calling a few of his suggestions ridiculous. There had been no raised voices, no raised fists, nothing. It was anticlimactic in the worst way.

The papers were vague, and were only about joint meetings and discussions between human leaders, and he wrinkled his nose and frowned even as he signed his name.

“The fuck is Obama coming for? Does this mean America’s going to be here?”

“I would assume that’s what it means.” India took each paper back as he finished signing, and packed them away neatly.

“Hasn’t he done enough damage?” That was a pain that was never going to heal in the face of their ill relations after their prior brotherhood. That hadn’t been the betrayal of family, but it hurt in a worst way, America’s abandonment and rejection. He felt almost sick before he suppressed the feeling, not wanting to show any weakness his brother could take advantage of.

“I think you’ve done more damage to your house.”

He almost asked what the fuck that meant when he noticed that India was looking his house with intense interest. He tried to see it from his eyes, knew that he was judging it as too cluttered, and messy, and out of sorts. He tried to work up angry, but all he felt was weariness. The interest in even getting in a debate with India today wasn’t something he could work up today.

“What the fuck ever man.” He finished signing all the papers in the hopes that it would get India that much sooner out of his space, so that he could sleep.

“Language,” India said, and there was the familiar tone that that always set his back up, and made him grind his teeth. Before he could pass the papers back to India, the older man had gotten out of his chair and was approaching one of his green walls.

“You have a nice eye,” India said casually as he studied the red and white abstract art and it was then that Akmal realized that he wasn’t looking at the mess and disorder, but was looking at the way in which Akmal had defined his house as his own. His brother’s back was to him as Akmal took in a deep breath and steadied himself.

“I do?”

“Yes, even I can admit to that. They are not things I would have chosen for myself, but they suit you.” India had moved on to a wall hanging and Akmal for once couldn’t guess at the look on his face. He didn’t sound like he was mocking him, or setting him up for a fall. So he took a risk, decided to prolong the conversation as long as he could. He could not remember the last time that he had simply talked to his brother with anything approaching this level of civility. They were always at war, guns at hand and finger on the trigger. He didn’t know what to make of this.

“Why do you think they suit me?”

India had his hands on the stand where he had just placed a fresh bouquet of flowers that morning. The vase was one that had appeared in August, a few days before India had called and wished him a happy birthday, and he knew as India touched it lightly but did not face him, that he really had been the sender of the Mughal era artifact.

“Because a long time ago, I thought I knew you fairly well--.”

“You . . .”

“--but I never really did. But all this, I think that it suits you.”

He realized, as India returned to his chair and gathered up his papers, that that might be considered a compliment in the weird manner his brother had. “Can I ask you a question--.”

“That could be considered one--.”

“--bhai?”

India fell silent, and he felt his stomach twist up with anxiety as India finished gathering the papers, and then closed his briefcase with another _snap_. That was his answer, then. Akmal readied himself to slide back down on his couch and go back to sleep.

“Alright. What did you want to ask?”

He felt something akin to hope as he looked up into India’s face and there wasn’t the impatience that was almost constantly there whenever they spoke. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak, gathering himself up, composing himself as he let himself try to breath and consider what he really wanted to know.

“Do,” and he licked his lips, nerves making him unable to look his brother in the face, “do you ever think we made a mistake in hating each other?” He had been tired for so long, and angry before all that that it was hard to even think that what had defined him for so long had been a mistake. But it was wasn’t it? Wasn’t he a mess because of his hatred?

He got lost inside his head, and couldn’t bring himself to look at India even as he spoke.

“Yes, do you?”

“I’ve,” and now he looked at him, faced him, and there was something he could see on his brother’s face, but he didn’t know what it was, “always regretted saying I hated you. I ruined everything when I said that.”

He was expecting India to agree with him. Hadn’t that been what he had said so long ago when he had left? But to his surprise, India shook his head.

“You haven’t.”

“Don’t lie to me, Hindustan,” he pushed a hand over his face, not caring if his kohl got messed up, “You know I did. I keep on doing all this and what? I’m dying, man, I can’t compete, I’m nothing, I can’t win against you. Everyone loves you and hates me and I can never _win_.” He couldn’t breath and was startled when a hand touched his head. He almost flinched away.

“There’s no winning and losing. There’s only death and living. And you’re alive, Pakistan, despite me, Arthur, and America, and everyone else. This is the pain of being what we are, and you’ve made your mistakes and now you can grow from them.”

“I’m,” and he broke off. He wasn’t alive. He was dead on the battlefield, unable to come back alive, despite all efforts that he made. People called him a failed state, and that was what he was in the end wasn’t he? He couldn’t look at India standing above him, but didn’t make any movement to knock his hand away, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“I have no right to tell you that, but you keep on fighting, bhai.”

He didn’t know what to do but he shifted and India fell back, but he stopped him from leaving his side and wrapped his arms around him. He buried his face in his stomach as he let himself cry as he had not cried in decades. He was waiting any moment for India to push him away and bemoan his ruined suit. He was surprised when he felt a light touch and then a soft sigh. The fabric underneath his cheeks was getting soaked, but India said nothing about it.

“Well, you have not done this since you were a child.”

He couldn’t imagine himself as a child ever seeking out comfort from India. He was terrified of this man, and he hated him. He feared him as much as he loved him.

“I did this as a child?”

“After bad dreams, or run-ins with people you didn’t like.”

He tried to keep his voice steady, even as he knew it was a wasted effort, “What was I like as a child?”

“Hm, adventurous. Very loud, curious and brave. You loved nature. You were spoilt rotten, some said.”

“Spoiled? Me?” he couldn’t stop the laugh even as his voice wavered. Even as close to him as he was, he could not have ever imagined this man doing anything to spoil him.

“I would call it more stubborn. You knew what you wanted, and would not let anyone stop you from getting it.” India almost sounded fond, and he had a hand lightly on his head as he spoke, “At least that’s how you were around me. I wasn’t always nice to you, you know, but you still smiled and had fun almost every single day.”

Niceness wasn’t even a question on the table. India had been cruel, had to have been for the sick twist in his stomach he got whenever he had to look into those amber eyes directly. He made to pull away but India patted his head and made to step back before he did.

“You were meant to be the hope for your people,” India said when he didn’t release him, choosing to keep him there until he could stop crying, “The idea of you was always bigger than you could have ever imagined. The things we fought about when you were a child were pointless and meaningless. Things like bedtimes, and proper diet, and such. I was too young to have been a parent, but you made it through me and now you’re here and you’re alive.”

“I love you, bhaiyya, you know that and,” It almost sounded like a defeat as he pressed onwards, “I--.”

“You know that I love you as well.”

He couldn’t even name a time when he’d ever heard that from India in his life. But the words sounded so familiar that he allowed himself to be comforted by them. Eventually he pulled away from India and went to wipe off his face. As he left, he caught a glance at his brother's face, and was embarrassed to see tear stains as well.

When he came back out, he stood awkwardly for a moment, “Would you like some tea?”

“You have retained some manners then, I see,” India said, and then smiled, “Cinnamon chai, I assume, Akmal?”

“Akmal?” He repeated, and stared at him, shocked to his core.

“That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah but you don’t,” Akmal shook his head, “You’ve _never_ \--.”

“We are brothers,” India said quietly, “We can at least call one another by name. Now, you were going to make chai?”

“Yeah, man, yeah, just,” and he left out of the room and into the kitchen and made the chai. He didn’t know what to do or say, so he left it alone and came back into the living room. India--Nalin had settled back down on the armchair, legs crossed at the ankle, and eyes on the tv. “Remote’s on the table.”

“Your team is losing.”

Akmal just stared at him and didn’t bother to walk around to get onto the couch but jumped over the back and grabbed the remote, even as Ind--Nalin made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “Shut up, they are not.”

“If you want to ignore numbers, I suppose they aren’t.”

He felt light as he argued about numbers and runs and wickets with his brother, he felt like he was going to be okay as his green eyes met gold. For once, the undercurrent of fear that happened when he did was small and not there. He didn’t think it would ever fully go away, but the war was over, and now he imagined he would be able to manage it bit by bit.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Now that I’ve written this, I feel like I can write more happy fics with them. This fic is not happy. It’s about healing.


End file.
